“No, and Nick doesn’t, either.”
“I already knew about Nick.” Rosalind turned to her sisters. “Anyone else? Skye? Jane?”
“Well—” started Skye.
Jane cut her off. “Hold on. What about our NIWB oath?”
“NIWB was only for truly awful boyfriends, Jane,” said Rosalind, “beginning with that Belmonte kid you fell for in ninth grade.”
“Who wore a leather jacket and led a dirt-bike gang,” added Skye.
“It wasn’t a gang,” objected Jane. “And he wasn’t awful. Just irreverent.”
Ben had never heard of either a Belmonte kid or an NIWB oath, which meant he was hearing his sisters’ secrets again, just what he didn’t need. At least they weren’t talking about Batty. Maybe he should abandon his anti-Oliver scheme and escape now, while they weren’t looking at him. If he could just reach the door, he’d make a break for it, grab some food from the kitchen, and go hide in the basement. He’d already ooched a few inches without being caught, and now he ooched a few more.
This time it was Skye who caught him and pulled him back into the circle.
“An NIWB—or No Interfering with Boyfriends—oath,” she told him, “is supposed to keep us from criticizing each other’s romantic choices.”
“Oh. Please can I leave now?”
“No,” said Rosalind. “NIWB temporarily canceled. Skye, you were saying?”
“Well, remember when Oliver was talking about visiting the Large Hadron Collider and the exciting research that’s being done there? I asked him a few questions later—he has no idea what the thing does.”
“Neither do I,” said Rosalind. “Jane?”
“Nope.”
“But, dodos, you aren’t pretending to,” said Skye. “You know how I am about phonies.”
“Yes, we do know.” Rosalind frowned. “What about you, Jane? Do you like Oliver?”
“He’s gorgeous. That smoldering gaze.”
“But—”
“I’m not sure I exactly like him. Sometimes he makes me wonder whether or not I should go to college, if that’s what it does to boys. But, Rosy, if you like Oliver, what does it matter what we think?”
“You’re right. Of course it doesn’t matter. I’m the oldest and should know what I’m doing,” said Rosalind. “Back to Batty.”
“Uh, no, um, um,” stuttered Ben, caught off guard. He’d stopped listening at smoldering gaze, trying to figure out what it was and if it was supposed to be good or bad, and more determined than ever to stay away from girlfriends for the rest of his life. This inattention could have been his downfall in the conflict of wills if Skye hadn’t unexpectedly come to his assistance.
“Rosy, isn’t the real question whether or not you like Oliver?” she asked.
“I thought I did.” Rosalind stared out the window. “But this past week I did find myself looking at him more than listening to him. He kept wanting to talk about Ingmar Bergman films and the politics of depression.”
“What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know—I couldn’t listen. But why do we keep talking about Oliver? We’re supposed to be figuring out what’s wrong with Batty. What else happened that weekend of your birthday, Skye?”
“Basketball, cake, Jane breaking Jérôme’s heart—”
“I did not break his heart,” protested Jane. “I merely caused a bit of painless confusion, which has been straightened out. Jérôme and his new translator, Lauren, are going out to dinner tonight. Besides, I might put Jérôme into a book someday.”
“Not everyone is fodder for books,” said Rosalind.
“For me they are. I can’t help it, you know. But if we’re talking about messing up with boys, let’s talk about Skye.”
“Ugh.” Skye lay down on the floor and shut her eyes. “Let’s not.”
“Jane’s right, Skye,” said Rosalind. “This whole thing with Jeffrey is a disaster.”
“We all miss him,” Jane added, “and wish you’d do something.”
“What do you suggest?” Skye tugged at her hair. “A frontal lobotomy? I can’t force myself to fall in love!”
“Whatever happens, you simply can’t make him stay away forever,” said Rosalind.
They were getting much too close to Batty’s secret for Ben’s comfort. Time to change the subject again, and this time he was ready. “Rosalind, you made Tommy stay away forever.”
“True,” said Skye.
“And that is way off-topic,” said Rosalind. “Please, let’s get back to—”
Jane interrupted. “Rosy, you know you want Tommy back. Honestly, I don’t understand why you even bother with people like Oliver.”
“I never said I wanted Tommy back!”
“You don’t have to say it,” said Skye. “Even I can tell you’re still nuts about him. Why don’t you just admit it?”
Rosalind flushed. “Because. Just because.”
“If you want to call him, I’ve got his number.” Ben pulled up his shirt and showed them. “Nick’s, too.”
“Why are they on your stomach?” asked Jane. “And upside down? Oh, right, they’re not upside down for you. Rosalind, let’s call Tommy—this could be a sign from fate.”
“No, let’s not,” she said. “Besides, I don’t need Ben’s stomach for Tommy’s number. I know it by heart.”
“More proof of your undying love,” said Jane.
“No, it is not. Please can we get back to—”
“And another thing,” said Ben. “Tommy never did anything dishonorable, never, ever. But Oliver asked me if you liked Nick, then gave me five dollars not to tell you he’d asked, but I didn’t promise, and anyway, Bat—and anyway, I ripped up the five dollars and flushed it down the toilet.”
Never had he seen looks of such astonishment—well, not since Rafael had told Ms. Lambert and the whole class about how his aunt had wrestled a giant octopus while deep-sea diving. Ben almost stood up and cheered. He was a general, and he was winning.
And then, just to top off his victory, the meeting was interrupted by a knock. Ben leapt up and opened the door—maybe it was someone in a crisis that only he could solve. But even better, it was his dad in his bathrobe, looking not very awake and not happy, either.
“I’m looking for Rosalind, and I heard voices—ah, yes, there you are, Rosy. Am I interrupting something important?”
“No,” said Ben.
“Yes,” said Rosalind. “That is, it would be important if we could stick to the subject. So far, all I’ve learned is that no one likes Oliver and that he tried to bribe my little brother. Why were you looking for me, Dad?”
“I don’t like to heap coals on your head, but Oliver waylaid me on the way into the kitchen for coffee—and also to look for my glasses, because they’re quite lost this time—and for the last ten minutes he’s been telling me the plot of Last Year at Marienbad.”
“Last Year at Marienbad doesn’t have a plot.”
“I know that, and yet …” He let his voice trail off.
“Oh, Daddy, I’m so sorry.” Rosalind looked like she was going to be sick. “Do you dislike Oliver as much as my siblings do?”
“Does it matter, filia mea?”
“Yes.”
“Then, darling daughter, I’ll tell you that I’m not fond of Oliver.”
“So it’s unanimous,” said Rosalind bitterly. “I feel like a fool. Unless Iantha happens to be crazy about him.”
“You know Iantha—she’s very accepting.”
“Thus, unanimous.” She stood up. “I guess I’d better go downstairs and tell Oliver it’s over, whatever it is.”
“Do you need our help?” asked Jane.
“No, you and Skye go back to sleep. I can’t have all three of us breaking up with him. But if anyone knows how to break up with someone you’re not exactly with, I wouldn’t mind a hint.”
“I know, I know,” said Ben, raising his hand like he was in class. “It’s this thing Nick taught me.”
/> Fifteen minutes later, Ben and his dad were at the kitchen table, feasting. Mr. Penderwick was wearing his glasses—Rosalind had found them behind the toaster—and was on his second cup of coffee and his first plate of scrambled eggs and toast. Ben was also eating eggs and toast, but only after downing the bowl of cereal he’d needed to get him through waiting for the eggs to cook. Both father and son were studiously not listening for any conversation drifting in from the living room, where Rosalind was trying to get rid of Oliver.
“Need more toast?” asked Mr. Penderwick.
“Yes, please.” The battle of wits with his sisters had made Ben extra hungry. “With jam this time.”
His dad went over to the toaster to pop in two more slices, then asked, in a casual sort of voice and with his back to Ben, “So, was that one of your sisters’ famous secret meetings?”
Ben looked suspiciously at his dad, but, unlike a person’s face, a back doesn’t give up much information. “Maybe.”
“They make you go to lots of them?”
“I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you.” Ben took a drink of orange juice. “But if I had brothers instead of sisters, I bet I wouldn’t be going to any.”
“That would probably depend on what kind of brothers they were.”
“Huh.”
The toast popped up and Mr. Penderwick made a great display of slathering it with butter and jam. “Does Batty ask you to meetings, too?”
Ben couldn’t believe it. After fighting off his older sisters, now he had to skirmish with his dad? His dad, who was even smarter than his sisters? Stalling, Ben drank the rest of his orange juice and went to the refrigerator for more. Briefly he considered dropping the carton onto the floor—that would distract his father for a while.
But Mr. Penderwick was talking again. “Your mom and I are awfully worried about Batty. If you know anything that would help us—”
“Maybe she has sleeping sickness.”
“No, there aren’t any tsetse flies in the United States. Anyway, sleeping sickness wouldn’t make Batty get onto a bus.” Mr. Penderwick put the plate of toast on the table. “I’ve been thinking about that bus and how it goes into Wooton and how once you’re in Wooton, you can take a different bus that goes to Boston. And how Jeffrey is in Boston.”
Ben dropped the orange juice carton onto the floor. “Uh-oh.”
“I’m close to the truth.” His dad barely noticed the mess. “Aren’t I?”
Ben shoved the carton with his toe, thinking, thinking, but his thinking had run out. He was weary of thinking. And he didn’t want to fight with his dad. He started to cry.
“I hate secrets,” he said.
“Me too.” Mr. Penderwick hugged his son. “That’s all right, you’ve been a good and loyal brother. You didn’t tell me. I guessed.”
Rosalind came in, took in the crying boy and the spilled juice.
“What happened?”
“I pushed him too hard,” answered her dad, gently steering Ben back to his chair. “Eat up, son of mine—get your strength back.”
“Okay.” The new toast helped dry his tears. “Is Oliver gone, Rosalind?”
“Yup, and I used that ‘I’m sure you’re a nice person’ thing you taught me.” She picked the carton off the floor and wiped up the juice. “Even with that, it took me a while to convince Oliver he wasn’t wanted. Apparently no one’s ever tried to get rid of him before.”
Knowing that Oliver was gone dried the rest of Ben’s tears. He could be proud of his role in that, anyway.
“And he told me to thank Jane and Iantha for the hospitality,” continued Rosalind, “making the point that they were the only ones who seemed to welcome him. If I hadn’t felt a little sorry for him, I would have told him that Jane will tolerate anyone she thinks she might write about someday, and that Iantha is just extraordinarily polite. But then he also said we need to work on Lydia’s social skills.”
Even without understanding what social skills were, Ben was offended. “Oliver needs work, not Lydia.”
“You know, Ben, that’s exactly what I told him. And then he left,” said Rosalind. “Dad, why couldn’t I see all along what a jerk he is?”
“Arcanum est, my dear, a mystery of the human heart. Have I ever told you about Neil Somebody who dated your aunt Claire? He was always going on about García Lorca—”
He paused. Somewhere Lydia was shrieking.
“BEN, BEN, BEN!”
All three rushed out into the hallway and looked up the steps. There she was, launching herself at the baby gate, determined to get either through it or over it.
“Lydia! No! Stop!” Mr. Penderwick was over the bottom gate and halfway up the steps when Iantha appeared behind her youngest and pulled her to safety.
“I’ve got her, honey!” she called down cheerfully. “Falling-down-steps injuries averted for now.”
Ben hadn’t been so worried about Lydia falling down the steps, but something else was bothering him.
“Why’s Lydia looking for me,” he asked, “when she has Batty right there in her room?”
DESPITE EVERYONE’S ATTEMPTS to be quiet early that morning, the activity outside Lydia’s room—Rosalind’s trips back and forth to Ben’s room, Mr. Penderwick’s climbs up and down the steps—had woken Batty. It took little now to yank her awake, so restless and dream-haunted was her sleep, more exhausting even than her lonely, anxious days. The dreams she’d left behind this time had been the worst yet, teeming with dark pits of dread, and when there seemed to be a break in the commotion, Batty fled to her own room and into the closet, where she huddled alongside Hound’s canvas bag. She’d been sneaking in here a lot over the last few days and doing the same thing each time—taking her two cherished photographs out from under the bag and studying them with her flashlight. She did it now, too, for whatever small comfort she could get. First, the dying woman with her brand-new daughter, that tiny baby who had caused endless pain to the people Batty loved. And then Hound, lost and beloved Hound, whom Batty had also let die.
After a while, she turned off the flashlight, rested her head on the canvas bag, and let herself fall asleep again, hoping that here she would be safe from dreams, in this place where no one would think to search for her. But too soon she was yet again jerked awake. Someone was out there in her room, moving around. If she stayed very still, they would go away. There was no one Batty wanted to talk to.
“You’re in the closet, aren’t you.” It was Rosalind.
How did she know? Batty wondered. It didn’t matter. She kept still and said nothing.
“I thought you’d want to know that Oliver’s gone for good,” said Rosalind. “Ben helped with that, actually.”
This raised a spark of curiosity in Batty, a tiny pinprick of interest, but not enough to help her move or answer her sister.
“May I come in?” Light flooded into the closet. Rosalind had opened the door.
There was no room for her back where Batty lay, but Rosalind was pushing her way in, determinedly burrowing through boxes and games to get to her sister. Batty stirred just enough to hide the photographs underneath the canvas bag. And still Rosalind pressed on, shoes, stuffed animals, golf balls, and shells bending to her will, until she was crouching next to Batty.
“Honey, everyone’s so worried about you. They’ve told me that you’re not going to school. Can you talk to me about it?”
No.
“Has someone hurt you?”
No.
“Is missing Hound making you ill?”
Not just that.
“Move over, Battikins. I’m getting a cramp.”
One part of Batty wanted Rosalind to go away, to leave her alone with her wretchedness. There was another part, though, that wanted Rosalind to stay with her, to comfort her, and this part forced Batty to uncurl herself and scrunch over to one side, but still there wasn’t enough room, so Batty scrunched over a little more, and this time, by mistake, she dislodged Hound’s canvas bag, and there in
plain view were the photographs. Batty tried to cover them again, but Rosalind was already crowding in beside her, and there wasn’t enough room, and—
Rosalind spotted the photographs.
“My goodness,” she said. “Is that Hound? Isn’t that the photograph you gave Jeffrey for his eleventh birthday? And—wait a minute, what’s this other—”
Rosalind cut herself off, with a face so sad that it broke Batty’s heart all over again.
“I’m sorry, Rosy,” she said.
Rosalind came back as from a dream. “What did you say?”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m—” Batty gasped, suddenly out of air. The big secret was slipping out of its box, choking her. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t know—I wish I hadn’t …”
Rosalind put her arms around Batty, trying to soothe her. “What are you sorry about, Batty? I don’t understand.”
Breathe, breathe, Batty heard Mrs. Grunfeld say. “That Mommy died because—that you lost your—I’m so sorry.…”
The secret was almost ready to burst free now, bringing with it all of Batty’s desolation, her guilt, her fear. It was tearing her apart—she wasn’t sure she’d still be there at the end, but there was no stopping this explosion, not even when she realized how much she was frightening Rosalind, even when she heard Rosalind telling her not to move, please don’t move, promise you won’t move, Batty, because she would be gone for just a minute, and then Rosalind was gone. Batty was smothering, drowning in anguish, and then her father came for her, shoving aside anything that got in his way and somehow carried her out and laid her gently on the bed. Iantha was there, too, covering Batty with blankets and asking calm questions, trying to understand, but Batty could only babble about killing her mother and how they should ask Skye about it because only Skye told the truth—to Jeffrey, anyway, Skye had told the truth to Jeffrey—and that she understood if they didn’t love her, because who could possibly love a girl who brought death with her, and that she knew she’d been a terrible bargain, a pitiful exchange for her mother.
With that, the secret was released from its box, dissipated, confessed, its power stripped away. And somehow Batty, still alive and in one piece, hadn’t been abandoned. Because here was her father, holding her and telling her how much he loved her, how much they all loved her. And now, at last, she could slip away into a sleep free of nightmares, into the healing rest she so badly needed.